


A Quarter Quell

by titania522



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Catching Fire, First Time Sex, Gen, Quarter Quell, canon AU, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:04:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titania522/pseuds/titania522
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a drabble request - Katniss seeks Peeta out for comfort after the Quarter Quell announcement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quarter Quell

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on an anon prompt on tumblr who asked “Can you do a drabble where after the news of the Quarter Quell, Katniss goes to Peetas house and they have wild sex?” Well, I changed it up a bit and the tone is much more serious from what is in the ask. It's also one-shot length and lots of dramatic irony. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you, Peetabreadgirl, for your fabulous – and quick – betaing!

_“On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.”_

**XXXXX**

Peeta leaves Haymitch and me sipping my mother’s broth, nursing our respective hangovers and our wounded egos.  He’s poured all of Haymitch’s liquor down the drain and given us a thorough tongue-lashing for getting drunk last night.

He’s right, of course.  I’m pathetic.  He responds to the announcement of the Quarter Quell by begging for my life and putting in motion a plan to get us physically ready for the Arena.  I respond by getting piss drunk. In all fairness, I begged for his life also, made Haymitch _promise_ to help me save Peeta, but in the intervening time between the reading of the envelope and my conversation with Haymitch, I hid in a basement and gave myself over to crippling self-pity. Shame is too strong of a word to use for the way that I now feel.

_You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve that boy._

Of that, I have no doubt.

**XXXXX**

I trudge back to my house, thinking of my mother and sister. The Quarter Quell announcement has me close to toppling over like a house of cards.  My stomach knots in fear and the nightmares, despite the alcohol, were fierce this night and will likely continue to be for a long while.

I glance over at Peeta’s house.  On this overcast day, the light is on in the kitchen.  I imagine him moving about it, perhaps kneading dough or taking something he’s baked out of the oven.  He keeps all of us well-stocked with bread and other baked goods.  I cringe internally as I recall the look of disdain he gave me and Haymitch, how he scolded us, how very self-righteous he decided to be.  It angers me, yet there is another feeling underneath I can’t quite pinpoint.  Instead of turning towards my own home, and purely without conscious decision, my feet move in the direction of his house and I am on his doorstep, rapping on the door.

I can hear his uneven tread as he approaches and wonder suddenly what the hell I’m doing there.

“Katniss!” Peeta exclaims, lifting an eyebrow as he steps aside to let me in.

“Why the surprise?” I say with false bravado as I enter his home and make for his kitchen.

“I just thought you might go back to bed or something,” Peeta says and it’s in his tone - the disappointment and irritation.  Anger floods my veins and I want to say something biting and sarcastic but I blush instead and turn to survey his kitchen. He’s been at it again - baking. Compulsive baking. Every available surface is covered with baked goods - muffins, cakes, breads, cookies, pastries...I glance at his face and I see the signs in the dark circles around his eyes that he hasn’t slept.  He was probably up all night, baking as he plotted.  He’s full of tension as I feel the shame wash over me again.

“What are you going to do with all of this?” I swallow hard, observing the way the piles of cakes and cookies lean over precariously.  I walk to the nearest tray and snatch up a frosted cookie, unable put it anywhere near my mouth as my stomach curls in nausea. I set it back down and wait for his response.

Peeta rubs the back of his neck, looking at everything as if he was just realizing that he’d made enough bread and goodies to feed all of District 12.  “I’m going to give it all away to whoever I see,” he answers, his eyes suddenly locking on mine, as if searching for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet.  I feel like an insect pinned inside a glass case, unable to pull away.  He can do that - freeze me in place with a look and I’m simultaneously disconcerted and compelled to do as those eyes tell me to do. The buzzer on the oven goes off, making us both jump and breaking the spell.  Neither of us responds well to loud noises and my heart pounds wildly beneath my ribcage.

Meanwhile, Peeta takes out the muffins he’s baking, setting them over the sink to cool, since all the racks have been taken up.  I think of his parents - how I never see them in Victor’s Village.  How he goes to have dinner with them a few times per week.  Is it a formality or does he enjoy it?

And how cavernous this house must feel when no one is here. A glance at the living room shows he’s added very little of himself to the decor of the house.  Life is here, in this warm kitchen and that strange feeling from earlier bubbles up again. I start to identify it as longing, though I’m unclear as to what, in particular, I’m longing for. I only know that it has something to do with Peeta.

“I can help you,” I offer.  “You know, get the stuff down to the center. Find folks to take it.”

Peeta cocks his head, studying me. “Are you up to it?” he crosses his arms and I can tell from his posture that his mind is still on this morning.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I say defensively.

“Well, I figured you might be a little, you know, too queasy to get much done today.” He says this almost sweetly but I can hear the sarcasm in his voice.  It sets my heart pounding.

“You can stop making a big deal about me getting drunk. I’ve never gotten drunk in my life and I think I'm a little entitled, given the circumstances. ”  I spit angrily.  

“I’m not going on and on about it!” Peeta snaps back.  “It’s Haymitch’s job to get falling-down drunk, not ours!”

Blood rushes to my ears now and I become angrier by the moment. “Well, you _are_ going on and on about it, in that ‘I’m so perfect’ way!“

“I’m not saying I’m perfect!” explodes Peeta.  “I’m saying, instead of wallowing in pity, we need a plan. One of us is coming out of that arena and it isn’t going to happen if all we do is get drunk. I guarantee, the Careers are not getting drunk at this moment!”

“I don’t care what the stupid Careers are doing at this moment!”

Peeta steps towards me, eyeing me carefully. I’ve become flushed with anger, and I can feel the aggression radiating off of me.  “I do!  We aren’t going into that arena unprepared this time. We are going to train and workout and there is no room for pity-parties!”

I’m so angry, I’m close to tears and I don’t want to cry, not over this. “Well, congratulations, you get the award for most well-adjusted Victor!  Sometimes, life gives you things that you aren’t equipped to handle!” I’m shouting now and I don’t care if all of District 12 hears me.  Sliding down my cheek, I can feel the hot, humiliating liquid.  I whirl around to hide my shame, which, if I am honest with myself, is what is fueling my anger:  Shame because Peeta was not the first person I thought of when I heard the news.  Shame because I’m afraid.

_I’m the only female Victor from District 12..._

Because I don’t know if I can take care of Peeta if this time, and the prospect of failure makes me want to fall on my knees and cover myself in ash.

The hysteria takes over again and I think of the sheet of plastic, the broken window of the basement I hid in yesterday. I long for darkness, cold and silence to drown out the realization that I will be returning to the Games, where the Gamemakers are determined to destroy me this time.  I begin to move towards my goal, baked goods be damned.

“Katniss!” Peeta calls out, catching my arm.

I yank back to escape his grasp but he is strong, his large, calloused fingers clamping around my forearm, the tips easily touching.  “Hey, stop, will you?” he pleads, pulling me back to face him. “I’m sorry, okay! I’m sorry!”

That feeling overtakes me again, the one that has been struggling to escape from beneath the fear, embarrassment and self-preservation. It’s longing - for him, for his arms, for that sense of safety that only he can give me.  It rears up like a hungry dragon and I stop thinking as I fling my arms around his neck, searching for that place of refuge.

“I don’t want to go back in!” I whisper fiercely, choking in fear. As my body melts into his warmth, the powerlessness rises up to drown me. “I don’t know if I can protect us!  They’ll be out for me!”  I squeeze my arms and I am sure I’m cutting off his breathing but I’ve become a ball of need and I cling to him for dear life.

“Katniss!” he croaks and I loosen my hold on him.  “That’s why we have to train,” he pulls back to look at me, his blue eyes boring into mine as his hand cradles my cheek. “We can’t go in there without a plan this time.  They have to have a Victor, right? Well, it’s going to be one of us.” He says this so firmly that I almost want to believe him.  Already, his close proximity soothes me and brings me down from the precipice of madness.  My mind, emerging from the imagined horrors of this Quarter Quell, reminds me of my purpose, _Keep Peeta alive_.

“It’s going to be one of us,” he repeats and I nod, wiping away the tears that are now drying on my face.  He makes to pull away but I won’t let him.  

“I’m tired, Peeta. Lay down with me?” I ask in a small voice.

His face becomes sad but he nods. “Okay. I’ll lay down with you.”

He takes my hand and leads me upstairs to his bedroom. The floorplan of all of the Victor’s Houses are the same so when we enter the room where he sleeps, I am not surprised at all that it is the one with the wide balcony overlooking the road leading through Victor’s Village, the one I insisted go to my mother.  

The bed is large and covered in thick pillows that Peeta clearly returns to order when he wakes, nothing like the pile of bed sheets that I abandon each morning when I leave bed to go hunting.

We engage in our old routine - I remove my shoes and pants and set them on the chair next to the bed while he leaves his shoes at the entrance of the room, flush against the wall - and it feels like coming home. On that horrible train, he was my refuge, my comfort and my body remembers, relaxing automatically in response to his closeness.  As I slide under the sheets, I feel his bare leg against mine, the cool metal and plastic of his prosthetic and I gasp in relief, releasing the stress of not being able to retreat to him whenever I wanted, the way I used to on the Victory Tour.

Peeta watches me as he lays on his side, his head resting on the pillow. I try to ignore his eyes - I can get lost in them and never emerge again but it is hard when mere inches separate us.  Scooting until I am within the boundaries of his arms, I press my face up against his chest and exhale, sending all of my misery out with that expelled breath and replacing it with the scent of him - flour, yeast, cinnamon and dill.  It’s contentment and warmth and better than almost anything I’ve eaten or drank or experienced in my entire life.  It comes close to the memory of listening to my father sing to me in the woods, the mockingjays first falling silent, then chasing after his song.  Moments like these make me believe that there can be something more to life than this constant fear.

I whimper at the need for contact and Peeta pulls me closer to him in response.  He is overcome - I can tell from the trembling in his arms and the shallow breaths he takes.   He misses this too, needs it as much as I do and I wonder to myself how I got through all these weeks without it.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers and it’s in his voice too, barely repressed, controlled need that he holds back because he doesn’t want to scare me with it.

“Me too,” I sigh and feel my body become heavy with it. The exhaustion of our separation. The stress of knowing that we will soon have to fight again for our lives.  It’s taken it’s toll on both of us. I don’t know who’s breathing evens out first but soon we both drift off to sleep.

**XXXXX**

It’s afternoon when I wake after a deep, dreamless sleep. I turn slightly to see Peeta laying on his back beside me, snoring softly, his arm flung over his head.  I didn’t have any nightmares and though I can never tell if Peeta’s had a bad night, I can tell from the smooth lines of his face that he hasn’t had any bad dreams either.  The throbbing headache that I had this morning is now gone and the nausea has dissipated.  I silently slip out of bed to relieve myself and rinse out my mouth, using a peppermint rinse that sits on Peeta’s counter.

He’s still sleeping when I return to bed and I smile to myself, thinking of what a light sleeper I am and what a log Peeta is.  His eyelashes rest against his cheek, so long and clear, they’re easy to miss in sunlight. I indulge my study of him, letting my eyes roam down his his strong nose, falling into the dimpled valley of his cleft, the strong jawline and smooth skin of his neck as it disappears into his t-shirt.

I already miss that broad expanse of chest and arms again and wonder if it’s not best to go home and check in with my mother and Prim.  Even as the thought crosses my mind, however,  I find myself crawling into bed next to him, settling into the crook of his raised arm, which he fluidly lowers and wraps around me.  He squirms, stretching with his other arm but keeping me firmly at his side before his eyes flutter open.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey,” I answer.  

Peeta stares at me, barely disguising his intensity.   “I haven’t slept like that in a long time.”

“Me neither,” I say and suddenly, I am so grateful for his presence, for the solidity he gives me that I promise myself that I will protect him and make sure he leaves the Quarter Quell alive if he is reaped.  The fear creeps up again but also my determination and, without any forethought, I press my lips against his as if to seal the bond of my vow.

We’ve kissed each other hundreds of times before but the heat of contact multiplies across my skin and singes my nerve endings.  I’m certain it is my oath that causes electricity to race over my body. Or maybe it’s the relief of sleeping next to Peeta again, something I didn’t consciously realize I was needing so much, that causes the effect but when I pull back, Peeta stares at me with eyes at once blazing and questioning.  I begin to wonder if the kiss had the same effect on him when he closes the distance between us again, leaving a more insistent, determined kiss on my lips.

The feeling is so decadent that when he tries to pull back again, I don’t allow it. I thread my fingers through his tangled, blond curls and tug his head downward, pinning his lips to mine. The pressure is such that his mouth gives way and changes the kiss.  I taste him as his tongue sweeps into my mouth.  Where there was no thinking before, now my mind is racing in panic.  I’ve never been kissed by him like this before and felt this way. It’s frightening and addictive at the same time.

I feel that thing I felt in the cave, that desire to kiss more, want more. And I give myself over to it because I’ve missed him and I want, no, I _need_ this.  I need the way his hands are skimming over my skin, I need the way his fingers press down on my hip to pull me towards him. I need the shock of feeling his hardness pressing up against me.  I should stop my hands as they slip under his t-shirt and race up his torso, my fingertips buried in the dust of curls on his chest, but I don’t.

When we break apart, we’re both panting.  Peeta struggles as I gasp for air, my body screaming in protest at the pause - it wants more of whatever this is - but I sense this moment of reprieve is something Peeta needs, to calm down and be in control of himself as well.  I continue to let my fingers roam, which elicits a barely suppressed moan, his swollen lips ready to be captured again by me.  I’m bolder than I’ve ever been and don’t stop to ask why. I want something, something only he can give me.

I reach up to kiss his neck and the powerful line of his jaw.  He shivers and in that shiver, I feel his confusion. I don’t say anything, afraid that if I do, the magic will end and I’ll have to go back home and face my family’s barely repressed grief. I’ll have to go back to my lonely bed and dream of all the new ways I will watch people die. I want to lose myself in this feeling he’s giving me.  My lips search hungrily for the skin of his chest covered by his t-shirt.

“Katniss,” he gasps again in surprise as I try to tug his shirt off.

“Please, Peeta,” is all I can manage. He obeys, sitting up to take off his shirt. I’ve seen him without clothes before but his strong chest is wide and solid beneath my exploring hands.  I lick his skin, my nose tickled by the hairs that sprinkle his chest. When I come upon his nipple, I experimentally let my tongue roll over it.  Peeta hisses and moans, grabbing my braid and, in one desperate maneuver, frees my hair from that messy rope and buries his hand in the thick, dark tresses.  I repeat the flicking of my tongue, satisfied at his reaction.  

When my fingers reach the hem of his shorts, his large hands descend over mine.  Peeta captures my gaze with his deep blue one and asks, “Are you sure?”

I understand what he’s asking and truthfully, I’m not sure of a lot of things. But I am sure that I will defend him to my death. I am sure that I will never be right again if I lose him in the Quell.  I’m sure that I’ve missed sleeping next to him and sometimes I miss him for no good reason.  I’m sure that I want whatever it is we are racing towards.

I give a silent nod.  He wants to say more, perhaps to reason and protest but I kiss him again and it changes his mind because he presses me back into the mattress, the full length of him lying flush against my body.  He peels my shirt and bra off, flinging them away from him and stares at me for a few moments.  I brace myself for the embarrassment - don’t people do this with their clothes off?  My body is in a rage over his delay and I grasp his hands, placing them over my breasts.  The warmth of those large hands against my skin elicits a reaction deep in my belly and the need I felt before was nothing compared to what flares up at that moment.  

Peeta is reverent, his hands soft and gentle against me.  When his mouth replaces his hands, I can’t suppress the way my body arches up to meet his warm, wet lips.  My arms encircle him and our hands and lips are everywhere and I lose track of where I end and he begins.  I’m no longer pinned to one sensation but flooded with the entirety of us, wrapped around each other, tangled in the frenzy to be everywhere and know everything there is to know about each other.  When, inevitably, he presses against me, I know I’m ready in that way that your body tells you, through aches and throbbing and its own warm, wet speech.  It’s pain and discomfort but it’s also togetherness and completeness. I push past the pinching sensation, to where he has taken off without me, the controlled rocking of his hips unable to temper his rhythm. I know it will end quickly - I see it in the pink frustration of his skin, the teeth that dig into his lips in an effort to slow down - but while there is something I’m running after that I can’t catch, there’s something else when he shudders and spills inside of me, and it satisfies and soothes me anyway.

We don’t say much afterwards.  Maybe, away from air that does not smell like a metallic, musky version of us, when we are dressed and equal to everyone else again, we can speak of this, training for the Quarter Quell, and imitating the Careers.  We can talk about overt strategies and alliances as we hide our private agendas from each other. But now, it’s just us and it’s oddly perfect - surprisingly so. I burrow contentedly  into his side, his strong arms crushing me against him.

I won’t have a hundred years to prove my supposed worth but I’ll save him. I’ll get him out of the Arena.  Because the alternative would thoroughly and completely break me.  

 


End file.
